


In This Hope

by archersandsunsets, rosegardeninwinter



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christianity, Crisis of Faith, F/M, Friends to Lovers, christian!everlark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25721101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archersandsunsets/pseuds/archersandsunsets, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosegardeninwinter/pseuds/rosegardeninwinter
Summary: Peeta Mellark doesn't want to feel like he's running away. But after his grandmother's death, moving across the country seems like the only option, even if it hurts like yet another loss. Instead, what he finds so far from home is more than he ever could have expected.
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	In This Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Well, well, well... Another one? Uh, you see... **scratches neck nervously** I (aka Reese/archersandsunsets) really wanted to write some Christian!Everlark, and then me and Cate started talking about it, and then... This happened. "Just a drabble," we told ourselves, but now we've got ~plans~ for as far off as engagement and marriage so... Consider this our side project when we emerge from the depths of WIIU, lol! Can be read as a standalone. Can also be expanded upon.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy! As always, feedback is appreciated. And if you want to come chat, hit both of us up at archersandsunsets and rosegardeninwinter on Tumblr, respectively.

_For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently._

_— Romans 8:24-25_

_  
I hold you in my heart, for we have shared together God’s blessings._

_— Phillipians 1:7_

* * *

**i. bind my wandering heart**

It wasn’t the same.

Peeta Mellark absently stirred his coffee, waiting for the sugar to dissolve—and waiting for the ache in his chest to subside. One thought cycled through his mind, over and over.

_It isn’t the same._

Of course, some things never changed about this place. The creased leather booths, the tinny sound of music struggling to air over the speakers, the distortion of one’s reflection in the napkin holder. But the pale sunlight of late April warming the empty booth across from him, the one where Mammaw always sat, contemplating the menu three times over, as if she was ever going to order anything but her usual toast and strawberry jam …

It wasn’t the same. It would never be the same again.

That’s why he had to leave.

Distantly, the bell on the door jingled. Peeta didn’t look up until he heard a familiar, soft spoken voice say, “Hey.”

Annie.

He met her eyes, seeing his own sadness reflected in her gaze. And empathy, pity. It made him uncomfortable. He raised his mug of coffee and immediately regretted the sugar he’d added to it. He winced at the overly sweet taste, then swallowed hard, as Finnick slid into the booth beside Annie.

He offered a halfhearted “Hey” back to them both.

“You planning on eating?” Finnick asked as a waitress noticed the new people and made her way over to take their orders. “Or did you already get something?”

Peeta shook his head. “No, I was waiting. Um — yeah.” He turned through the laminated pages as if he was ever going to get anything but his usual, the cheesy grits he’d been obsessed with since Mammaw first brought him here after church. He’d thought this would help somehow. Going about their Sunday routine one last time, but all it had done was make him feel lightheaded and nauseated hours before he even boarded his flight.

Orders placed and menus cleared away, Annie reached across the table for his hand, pinioned it gently between hers, her engagement ring throwing flecks of colored light over her fingers. “This is big,” she said around an exhale. “I can’t believe you’re leaving.”

“I mean, not forever,” he reminded her. “I don’t know how long I’ll be able to take the cold and wet,” he added, trying for levity.

“I think it’ll speak to your artist’s soul,” Finnick joked. “More than little ole Georgia does, anyway.”

“You’re fixing to get a bunch of green and grey watercolors,” Peeta said, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth in spite of himself.

“It’ll be a different palette for sure,” Annie replied, “But maybe it’ll be nice. To get a change of scenery. It might even be inspiring.”

“You can only paint this town so many times,” Finnick chimed in.

“Not that each time isn’t beautiful, Peeta. No one else could capture the charm!”

“But let’s be fair, hon, in the competition between the apple trees behind the bakery and a mountain …”

“The mountain wins,” Peeta agreed. “No, I — I am excited about that. It … just feels …”

The waitress returned with their food and Peeta trailed off as the hot plates were set in front of them, taking another sip from his too sweet coffee. When he set it down, he recognized the bright red bun on the waitress serving their food.

“Lavinia, hi.” He wished he didn’t sound so hollow when he said it.

“Peeta.” She smiled at him, but it didn’t reach her eyes. As she set the last of the dishes down, her expression sobered. “I … I heard. I’m so sorry.”

He nodded. “It … well, you know she loved this place, so … ”

“She was great. Everybody loved her.”

“She was. Thank you.”

“Of course.” It seemed as if she noticed Finnick and Annie, then. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m probably intruding. I just wanted to come over and say…”

“No, no. It’s fine, really. You’re not intruding at all. Actually, it’s… good that I was able to see you before I leave.”

“Leave?”

“I’m about to fly out to Oregon. Go stay with my brother for senior year, finish my degree.” He shrugged, outwardly more casual than he felt. “Just for a breather. Until I figure things out.”

“Oh. That’s good. Can’t say we won’t miss seeing you around, but — ” She gave herself an almost imperceptible shake and refilled his water glass. “I’ve got an aunt who lives in Idaho. Hear it’s really pretty up there. Bet you’ll have a really nice time, Peeta.”

“Yeah, I hope so.” He didn’t know what else to say. “I’ll miss y’all, that’s for sure.”

“Well, I’m glad I got to see you. Enjoy. Let us know if you need anything.” Lavinia gave a small smile. “You take care, alright?”

“I will. You too, Vin.” Peeta tried to give her a genuine smile as she turned away.

Silence settled over the table for a moment. Finnick opened his sandwich and plucked the sliced pickles out, transferring them with a look of disdain to Annie’s plate. Annie scoffed affectionately and poked them away from her omelette. The smell wafting up from the bowl of grits in front of Peeta helped to calm his stomach somewhat and he took a bite. These were the same. Warm, comforting.

“Peeta,” Annie said gently, “You were saying earlier … about feeling something other than excitement?”

“Oh.” He sighed. What could he say? _“I feel like I’m running away from something?”_ It was normal, he supposed, to want to distance yourself from grief, but this, much like everything today, didn’t feel the same. No, he didn’t want to go back to that quiet, lonely house and sit across from the rocking chair or the porch swing or any other places the woman who raised him ought to be. But he wasn’t sure that was all he was running from.

“We’re all praying for you,” his friend Rue had said today as he hugged her goodbye in the church parking lot. But the sentiment had lost its spirit. Instead, it struck him how hollow that statement felt, as the dull ache of loss and displacement thudded against his chest. He didn’t feel right sitting in the pew without his Mammaw by his side. Without her voice mixing with the congregation during worship, singing the simple, hymnal truths. Echoing them into his heart where he could keep and believe them.

He didn’t like to think he was running from that. It would be another hard hitting loss that he was unprepared for: the loss of the freedom he found in the grace that he never received from his mother, in the presence of a father who had not left him the way his own had in a quick and messy divorce.

“Peeta?” Annie’s voice brought him out of his troubled thoughts.

“Just … anxious,” he decided lamely. “Excited, but … yeah mostly anxious.”

“Obviously, sweetheart,” Annie said kindly. “Everything’s gonna be fine here. You know that. The house isn’t going anywhere and we’re gonna text and call you so much you’re gonna be sick of us.” She glanced at Finnick, who was nodding in agreement. “Plus, you’ll be back for the wedding.”

“At the very least we’ll need you to be a remote consultant for the cake decorations,” Finnick added.

“I’ll send you my Pinterest board.” Annie laughed and Peeta couldn’t contain a grin in response. “Listen,” she said, softer, “It’s okay not to deal with everything at once right now.” She squeezed his hand.

Peeta nodded. He knew she was right, even if she wasn’t talking about the fears he left unsaid. Her words still rang true at the heart of the situation.

He was leaving. Leaving everything he had ever known—the house that he first felt he could call _home_ , the first place he found God, the town where he met his first friends—would all be left behind as soon as he boarded the plane. A whole new roster of firsts was waiting for him in Oregon.

But these were the lasts, at least for a while.

Until he figured out what it was he was looking for by leaving.

Until he decided he was able to come back.

* * *

Nothing was the same.

Mammaw’s house was an old rambling farmhouse with a sprawling backyard that ran up into the sunny oak forest, full of knick knacks and cinnamon scented candles. His brother’s tiny, sparsely furnished apartment overlooked the sleepy Oregon town, grungy buildings ringed around by misty evergreens, and smelled almost exclusively of coffee and of Ruben’s girlfriend’s dog.

It was just the distance Peeta needed. Within the first month, the guest room quickly filled up with those green and grey watercolors he’d warned Finnick and Annie about: mountains and coastlines, funny local bookshops and rustic breweries. Annie was right. Oregon was inspiring in its unfamiliarity.

The cold plagued him, though. Not the weather. That hadn’t turned out to be the problem he thought it would. Ruben had taken one look at the clothes he’d brought and had hauled him out to buy a waterproof windbreaker and some boots. May turned to June and cool mornings gave way to warm afternoons, but the gnawing, icy feeling inside him persisted. It didn’t matter how many watercolors he did or cups of artisan tea he drank. Nothing could melt it.

Especially now, as he stared up at the illuminated sign of Hope Community Church. Compared to the whitewashed wood siding, elegant steeple, and colorful flower beds of his church back home, this one, all modern brick exterior and tall steel support beams lining the entrance, looked … like a box. An ugly box. He didn’t think Mammaw would like it very much.

“You going to listen to the service from out here?” Ruben asked. “Come on, Peet.”

The second they entered the lobby, Peeta felt overdressed — or, more accurately, everyone around him, his brother included, looked underdressed. Jeans and flannel shirts, tennis shoes and sandals. There was the occasional, more formal blouse or blazer or dress, but a majority looked very … casual. It was clear that there was a different definition of “Sunday best” around here.

Peeta fidgeted with the sleeves of the blue Oxford tucked into his khaki pants. He followed Ruben past the greeting team to the coffee station, where his brother picked up a paper cup of regular brew, and Peeta, growing tired of Oregon coffee by the minute, opted for water.

Several of Ruben’s friends came up to say good morning and Peeta did his best to remember the names and faces he was introduced to, but what did it matter if he forgot? There was no way he was staying at this church. It was totally foreign and he was completely out of place. Mammaw always did remind him that it wasn’t the building or the style of worship that was the important thing. It had been easy to accept that when there was no other building or style to compare to. _Am I supposed to feel sick to my stomach?_ he half accused his grandmother’s memory.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he could see her, flyaway grey hair underneath a gardening hat, encouraging his five year old self to take a bite of collard greens. “Well now, you’ll never know if you like something until you give it a chance,” her voice told him. But she’d understand this, right?

Nothing was the same.

The sanctuary wasn’t the same. They didn’t even call it a sanctuary. They called it an “auditorium,” which just made him feel like he was about to attend a concert. This impression wasn’t helped as he and Ruben found seats — chairs, not pews, he noted — and he looked up at the stage, where a band with drums and a keyboard and a guitarist were getting ready. On the wall behind them, a countdown was projected amid an animated background.

When he was little and bored during service, Mammaw would give him a piece of paper and a bag of crayons she’d brought. She’d open up her Bible and point to a section and tell him “draw that story.” He’d get engrossed in trying to read all the big words and turn what he discovered into a colorful scene. Mammaw kept every single one. From his first “Jonah and the whale” in which the whale was dwarfed by Jonah’s towering size, to the beautiful pencil illustration of the Garden of Eden he’d done only last February as his way of taking notes on Genesis.

“That’s quite the paradise,” Mammaw had murmured, tracing a bony hand over the intricate detail work. The pastor talked about paradise at her funeral too. Peeta couldn’t bring himself to draw in church after that — but now he found himself propping his Bible on his knee and looking around for a pen as the timer clicked closer to zero and more congregants poured in.

 _You’ve got to be kidding me,_ Peeta thought as a middle aged man carrying an iPad approached the front, a mic pack secured to his belt. He leaned against the stage to speak to the guitarist, who nodded and began to strum chords as the older man walked away.

“Ruben, is that the pastor?”

“Yeah,” Ruben reported with a grin. “Pastor Abernathy. But he asks that we call him Mitch.”

Pastor Abernathy, or Mitch, at least, was wearing a gray button-down over his dark wash jeans.

“Morning everyone.” The pastor’s gruff voice was amplified into the lobby, but the chatter didn’t die down until he added dryly, “And all God’s people sat down and got quiet.” A fond laugh ran through the room and people did as instructed. The projector switched over to a graphic encouraging new attendees to fill out a connection card as the pastor sat on the edge of the stage.

“Connection card,” he stated, gesturing to the screen above his head. “We want to hear from you. Let us know if you’re new, or if you have any prayer requests. Don’t be shy; you can use more than the three itty bitty lines they gave you. Seriously, I need my glasses for those.” Another ripple of laughter. “Oh, yes. There are also other announcements,” he said, as though he’d just remembered, but there was a smirk on his face. “This Wednesday we have our youth Bible study here at seven in the evening. So,” his gaze roved the audience mock threateningly, “if you’re a youth, you know where to be. I promise, it’s a good time. But clearly I’m not in the age group to tell you that.” More laughter. “Anyway, there’s more information in your programs.” He clapped his hands together and stood up. “And now, all God’s people stood for worship and gave a warm welcome to the summer music team.”

There was a general murmur of assent as people got to their feet. Peeta glanced around for a hymnal as the overhead lights went down. It was dark as he bent to look under his chair in case he’d missed it, then blue and purple light spilled from the stage lights as he felt a hand on his arm.

“What are you doing?” Ruben whispered.

“Where are the lyrics?”

“Not down there. They’re up on the projector.”

Ruben jutted his chin in the direction of the stage, where a singer had positioned herself in front of a microphone, silhouetted by light as the keyboardist began to play a slow, rippling melody. Sure enough, the title of the song appeared against a blue background, followed by the first lines of lyrics.

The singer nodded along to the music for a moment, then took a breath and began.

“Let the king of my heart

Be the mountain where I run,

The fountain I drink from,

Oh, He is my song…”

 _Wow, she’s really good._ Peeta was impressed for the first time since stepping in the building. For some reason, her voice made the whole thing feel less like a concert, not more. It was soft, maybe slightly nervous, but rich and genuine. She finished the first stanza and as the band played a brief interlude, she rolled her shoulders back as if to loosen up, and when she started the second verse, the auditorium seemed to relax alongside her, singing out more confidently.

“Let the king of my heart

Be the shadow where I hide,

The ransom for my life,

Oh, He is my song…”

Back home, sunlight would cast radiant rays in a kaleidoscope of colors through the stained glass windows. Here, artificial light gave the same beauty, only emphasized by the dark.

Peeta glanced over at Ruben. His brother’s eyes were closed and his mouth was open in song. One hand reached toward the ceiling in true worship. It was so different from the bored, glazed-over expression he would take on in years past, when Mammaw would bring them to church. Ruben would complain how stuffy the building was, would ask if he _really_ had to go and whine when the answer was yes, at least until he was a teenager and Mammaw let him stay home … But not today.

Today, Peeta saw that Ruben really believed in the words he was singing. He didn’t even seem to notice the way his brother was frowning in confusion at him. Ruben wanted to be here. He even went so far as to convince him to come along.

What was it about this strange, too modern place that had transformed Ruben from the boy who used to spend his time making airplanes with the prayer cards? Peeta let his eyes wander around the space as the worship team reached the song’s chorus.

“‘Cause You are good,

You’re good, ooh,

You are good,

You’re good, ooh…”

Unbidden, he felt goosebumps run up his arms and the back of his neck. It wasn’t only the infectious, joyful energy of the congregation, it wasn’t just the singer’s enchanting voice, though it was both of those things too. For a brief second, he wasn’t in this dark, glowing room. He was ten years old and it was a stormy Sunday morning in July. Out the arched windows of his Mammaw’s church, he could see the trees rustling and bending in a high Georgia wind. The choir was singing a hymn he couldn’t ever remember the name of, something that rose to a spine-tingling crescendo over the thunder. He’d set down his artwork in favor of staring at his grandmother, who smiled a knowing smile and put a finger to her lips as if telling him not to spoil it. That was the first day he’d been able to focus on the sermon and he’d chatted his grandmother’s ear off about it on the ride home. She’d laughed and said, “Leave it to the good Lord to capture the heart of an artist with dramatics.”

The memory faded, the chapel turned back into an auditorium, the choir into a band, but the feeling didn’t change. He caught his breath.

On stage, the singer’s voice rose clear as she repeated the chorus. She wasn’t looking out at the audience. She wasn’t looking at anyone at all. Her eyes were closed and her face was turned up, toward the ceiling. One hand grasped the microphone, the other extended towards the sky. As if she could touch God himself by singing the words. The rest of the band were singing too, even without microphones, like the music was flowing through them and they simply couldn’t help it.

Peeta’s heart thudded hard against his ribs in time with the drumbeats and as it did, it occurred to him the clammy feeling there felt clearer. This wasn’t so bad after all. _I mean, they could turn out to be completely heretical,_ he thought with amusement, but he didn’t believe they would. He was unused to this kind of music, so instead he closed his eyes and let the sound wash over him. He preferred hymns to contemporary music, but he got the impression God liked either. The thought made him smile and his foot tapped quietly against the carpet as the last chords of the song faded away and the pastor made his way to the front again, scrolling on his iPad. The worship team set their instruments aside and made their way down to the seats as everyone sat for the sermon.

“Last week we were in the book of Isaiah … The verses are up on the screen … We are looking at chapter forty ... ”

“Hi,” came a whisper from beside Peeta. “Is this seat open?”

He turned to reply and blinked when he realized it was the singer, a slight young woman with olive skin and a long black braid slung over her shoulder. She was holding sheet music and a ratty Bible close to her red cardigan. “Hi. Yeah, this seat’s open. You have a really good voice,” he added politely as she sat down.

“Thank you,” she murmured, flipping open her Bible to the chapter they were learning about. There were green sticky notes plastered all over the pages, scribbled with notes and arrows, pointing to verses. The girl fished a pen out of her pocket, clicked it open and leaned back in her seat.

“To understand this passage, we have to understand where Israel is at this point in history … ”

Peeta opened his Bible and thumbed through to Isaiah. Most people were reading the screen, Ruben included, but not him — and not the girl. The side of Peeta’s mouth quirked up in the smallest of smiles. He glanced beside him and then back at his Bible.

 _So I’m not the only old school one here_ , he thought.

Then a hand flashed over his field of vision and before he could find the verse the pastor was talking about, a green sticky note had covered the whole passage.

 _ **Hi, I’m Katniss!**_ It read in a neat, careful print. **_Not many people bring their Bible to church. Cool!_**

Before he had time to react beyond a nod, she’d put another note atop the first and set her pen in the crease of his Bible. _ **What’s your name?**_

Peeta couldn’t help it. He gave her a real smile, wrote his name down, and beneath it he dashed out, _**Why are we passing notes in church?**_

The girl’s expression went mischievous and she shrugged, accepting her pen back and focusing again. Peeta followed her example.

“I really want us to pay attention to verse eight here. If there’s two things we can count on in this life it’s this. One: things are going to change. The verse talks about grass and flowers but it could be anything. Fill in your blank — none of it’s permanent.”

 _Fill in your blank,_ Peeta thought. _Just one?_

_Dad leaving, no explanation, just suitcases in the hallway one morning._

_Mom never having been there in the first place, not really. Not in any way that counted._

_Ruben moving across the country the first chance he got, infrequent texts and Skype calls the only things linking them together._

No need to remind him nothing in life was permanent. His whole childhood had been one blank after another. Except for his grandmother, and now she was the starkest blank of all.

“But here’s the plot twist.” Pastor Abernathy held up a second finger. “This verse doesn’t leave us there. Because, two — ” He pointed to the verses on the screen above. “This doesn’t change. God doesn’t. His word doesn’t. Doesn’t matter time, place. Flowers, grass … fill in your blank.”

He continued on about Zion and Jerusalem and shepherding metaphors, but Peeta found himself reading verse eight over and over again. He was still stuck on it when the pastor finished up and the offering went around as the band’s guitarist returned to the stage to play an instrumental.

Impermanence and permanence.

_Nothing is the same._

_It will never be the same._

But, maybe … It wasn’t supposed to be.

Peeta was brought out of his thoughts as the room darkened again, as Pastor Abernathy reintroduced the summer worship team. He looked beside him, expecting Katniss to slip away as quietly as she had appeared, back to the stage, but she didn’t. She simply stood, and he did too, as the keyboardist led the closing song in a low voice.

“I will run and not grow weary

I will walk, I will not faint

I will soar on wings like eagles

Find my rest in your everlasting name…”

The tune was easy and Peeta found himself humming along. He stole a glance at Katniss, who clearly knew it by heart. Her eyes were closed again and she swayed, balanced on tiptoes as if she were one of those eagles, about to take flight, soaring as freely as her voice.

“You are my revival

Jesus on you, I wait...

And I'll lean on your promise

You will renew my strength…”

The lyrics were straight out of Isaiah. They fell over Peeta like a balm to his hurting heart. He’d felt so weak, so uncertain. Mammaw had been his rock. He’d come in today convinced she would have hated this church, so unlike everything she’d grown up with and raised him in. He felt guilty thinking that now. She might have chuckled or shaken her head at the scale and spectacle, but she wouldn’t have hated it.

“Hatred’s the easy way out,” she’d told him once, a few months before she’d finally snapped and taken him and his brother away from her daughter’s house. He’d come to her crying about how much he hated his mother. “The only thing you should really hate in this world is the sin that’s in it.” She’d wiped the tears from his face and held him close. “I know it’s hard, sweet pea. Lord knows your Mama makes me wanna smack her. But I think you and I are better than that, huh?”

If Mammaw could find it in her not to hate his mother, an unfamiliar church wouldn’t even rate.

“God is everywhere,” she’d tell him if she could. And maybe she was. “School. Work. Down at the bottom of the ocean. Up among the stars. In a big ol’ field in the middle of nowhere, Arkansas. Right here in my heart. Right here in yours. That’s gotta be your rock, baby. Not me. Not anybody.”

Peeta set his hands on the back of the vacant seat in front of him to steady himself, head hung, staring at the floor.

She was right. Ocean. Stars. Big ol’ field in the middle of nowhere, Arkansas. Georgia. Oregon. His old church. This new one. Mammaw warbling out a hymn next to him or Katniss’s smoky lilt. Stained glass and spotlights.

He took a deep, calming breath and raised his head to sing, the cold in his chest melting away like there was some sort of fire filling up his lungs.

_Flowers, grass, fill in your blank._

It was the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter title from the song/hymn, "Come Thou Fount." I like the MercyMe version best, but there's so many to choose from!


End file.
